


careless

by orphan_account



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>jacket gets some alone time</p>
            </blockquote>





	careless

**Author's Note:**

> this is actually is pretty old thing i just dug up from months ago and i decided to rework it a little. i'm sorry america

It was easy to be careless.

So careless that you smoke all the way through your last pack of Newport cigarettes in less than half an hour and fail to notice that you have nothing else to sate your addictive, needy personality- and you hold onto your last cigarette like it's going to save your life one day when you need it most. 

It was another light, crisp Sunday afternoon. His mind traced around, indifferent, longing deeply for something to brood on, to remind him of the things he was more or less forced to wrap his head around; relationships and his military training. 

Addiction lurked inside him so. It wasn't only cigarettes that kept him concerted to reality in this life- at least, after he met Beard. 

He dragged a tired hand though blond strands of hair that only cascaded back into his vision and only added back to the gnawing feeling of hopelessness he had to nurse. There was one Newport, unlit, clamped between his fingers. He would make it last.

Just outside the tent, the sun was setting dolefully on the west; milky yellow strands covering an orange horizon. There were palm trees to the east, and pink clouds in his peripherals. Perfect.

How he longed for Miami as he lay motionless on the cool bedspread, his fingers tracing the elaborate wrinkles on the sheets underneath him. Serving in Honolulu had its given benefits, yes- wonderful sunsets, picturesque scenery, decadent isolation from the world, the occasional wonderful taste of salt-and-peppered mangoes, and the opportunity to flaunt one's patriotism, but it all seemed to worthless when he took into account how empty he always felt nonetheless.

He often found himself asking how it all came to this. Drinking, smoking, and of course, sinking into a deeper feeling of self-estrangement and apathy directed at nothing in particular. His eyes lulled closed.

There was a lighter encapsulated in his hands that he didn't remember picking up. With a familiar click, his fingers triggered a small fire. He was surprised it wasn't out of fluid yet. 

Time drifted by in a blur. Minutes, maybe hours passed of him merely staring at the tent's ceiling. It became late noon, but of course, his entire squad was situated outside enjoying fine 40-oz bottles of Bordeaux and other imported wine, while he admired the silence and the puffs of smoke he produced with each heave of his chest. Beard was outside.

Hmm. Beard.

Addictions lurked inside him, but he'd never quite been addicted to a person. His hair was lovely. He'd been growing it out.

Ginger orange- light brown in the mornings and crimson red in the evenings. His eyes were an emerald green that seemed to change color based on the lighting of the room. Whenever he hadn't worn his glasses, they appeared a light hazel, complementing his features and mild eyes...

They'd met before Beard had facial hair. He had a distinct Hemingway jawline which was very, very defined in the right light... His neck stood out as well, soft skin begging to be kissed. To be sucked on. To be given the attention it deserved.

"Mm."

This wasn't the first time he'd done this. With a deep exhale, he heaved out yet another wispy puff of smoke. 

His jaw wasn't the only thing about him that was defined. His arms were strong and capable, matching his well-built body and tendency to lift heavy things just to show off. He looked good when the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. He looked better at those early-morning times when he had nothing on but his briefs and was doing push-ups on the floor to spike his adrenaline and get his blood racing.

The sweat dripping down his body. His hair snaking into his eyes. The _motion_ he was making when he did push-ups. 

The cigarette hung loosely out of his mouth. No longer was he holding it. His head wrenched side to side on his pillow as he exhaled a cracked sigh and his right hand found itself massaging his hard-on through his jeans. He thrust his hips up against his hand and kept his eyes closed, hanging onto his thoughts while he came apart at the seams.

Beard wasn't anything shy of powerful. He could throw his weight on top of him and pin him down and do anything he pleased. Anything at all. He imagined Beard brushing his hands along his torso and grinding on his ass through his jeans, firming his grasp and making him cry aloud.

No more. No more.

Convulsing in desperation, Jacket attempted to undo his fly. His pants felt much too tight and he couldn't wait anymore. The cigarette nearly fell out of his mouth, but the quick jerk of his head he compulsively made when he felt his cock in his hand saved it. He let out a rough groan and a series of shallow, choked breaths.

He forced himself upright just enough to spit the cigarette out into a bystanding ashtray and dig his face into his pillow. He decided he'd settle for the inelegant stroke of his own hand on his length, despite how its dryness almost hurt.

He splayed his legs and reveled in himself, moaning Beard's name- quite loudly- and bucking his hips up into his hand. He drowned out the world with the sound of his own incessant groans and sighs, and his eyes were still shut. Had they been open, he would have seen that the tent's flap had been lifted by someone familiar.

"Yeah?”


End file.
